


ask thy Soul if we should part

by labellelunaclaire



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Victorian Way (Web Series)
Genre: (but doesn’t understand boundaries), (but is still upset after their fight in 1862), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Class Issues, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Crowley and Aziraphale’s Great Victorian Rough Patch, Crowley's Century-Long Nap (Good Omens), F/M, Gender Roles, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), M/M, Multi, Other, Period Typical Bigotry, Period-Typical Sexism, She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:41:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26426554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labellelunaclaire/pseuds/labellelunaclaire
Summary: November 1881, Audley End Estate. Crowley is woken up from a 19-year-long nap to go on an assignment for Hell. Disguised as a young kitchen maid applicant, Crowley must interview with the estate’s cook, Mrs. Avis Crocombe.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 20





	1. ‘mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam

**Author's Note:**

> Why, you may ask? Because I spent my quarantine obsessing over _The Victorian Way_ and had the random thought of, “What if _Victorian Way_ but also _Good Omens?”_ What followed this dumb little thought experiement turned into many, _many_ hours spent researching the lives of maids in Victorian England and even spending my real, _actual_ American dollars on the Audley end guidebook.
> 
> I’m sure I’m the only person who wants this crossover. But I’ve spent so much time on it, it’s time to put it out into the world.
> 
> Despite my attempt to make this fic as historically accurate and true to the Victorian Way canon, I have also tried to make this fic as easy to follow for people unfamiliar with the English Heritage series as possible.

_Nita, Juanita  
_ _ask thy soul if we should part  
_ _Nita, Juanita  
_ _lean thou on my heart_

— “Juanita”, Caroline Norton, 1853

 _‘mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam  
_ _be it ever so humble, there’s no place like home_  
_a charm from the skies seems to hallow us there  
_ _which seek through the world, is ne’er met with elsewhere_

— “Home, Sweet Home!”, John Howard Payne, 1823

**Saffron Walden, November 1881**

Crowley brushed her hands primly over her knees, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from her simple, dark navy dress, wishing she were dressed in her more usual all black. She had to settle for a black traveling cloak instead. She sat up straight on a small wooden bench in a hallway of the service wing, staring vaguely at the wall in front of her while she waited to meet the housekeeper and cook. It had been a long time since she posed as a woman, or this young, but both changes to her corporation were necessary in order to procure this post.

Audley End was a grand old estate. Indeed she’d been here several times before, though the house had changed a lot in nearly three hundred years. Parts had been completely knocked down or renovated to the point of being unrecognizable. And it’s not like she’d spent a great deal of time in the service wing regardless. Now, that’s all she would see of the magnificent house.

Crowley _hated_ these types of assignments. She preferred a higher class lifestyle. It was far more enjoyable to knock elbows with the aristocracy in the Great Hall than to labor away in cramped servants’ quarters. But Hell didn’t give a rats arse what _she_ thought.

The benefit to being a kitchen maid was that she was bound to hear every drop of gossip — high or low — for the entire estate. The kitchen was the beating heart of a house, and she would be in the center of it. She was still unsure what exactly she was meant to be doing here, who or what she was meant to be tempting or manipulating. She’d simply been told to go to Audley End and figure it out.

The heavy wooden door at the end of the hall opened and she turned her head to see , the young housemaid who had led her through the service wing. She was clearly a junior maid, probably only a few years into her service career. Crowley stood, leaving her traveling bag on the floor at her feet.

“Mrs. Warwick and Mrs. Crocombe will see you in the cook’s room for your interview, Miss Crowley,” Kate said. “Follow me. You may bring your bag with you.”

“Of course,” Crowley said demurely, grabbing her bag quickly and following Kate through the door she’d just come through.

They were immediately met with the heat and bustle of the estate’s kitchen. Two girls carried out their set tasks quickly and efficiently, chopping vegetables and weighing ingredients on the large wooden table in the center of the room while dashing to the stove range to mind the many pots and pans cooking there. Crowley took in as much of the space as she could as Kate continued to a door on the other side of the kitchen and led her through it.

“Your applicant for the kitchen maid position, Mrs, Crocombe,” Kate said nervously with a respectful but clumsy curtsy to the woman sitting down at the desk against the wall. “Mrs. Warwick,” she added quickly with another anxious curtsy to the older woman sitting at the table.

“Thank you, Kate, you may return to your duties,” Mrs. Warwick stated in an authoritative voice that matched her stiff black attire. Kate nodded and scurried out of the small sitting room, closing the door a little too loudly and leaving Crowley alone with the two senior service-women.

“Welcome, my dear,” Mrs. Crocombe said warmly. Her dark eyes glinted with a slight mischievous air behind her spectacles that immediately made Crowley like her. “I’m Mrs. Crocombe, the cook here at Audley End, and this is Mrs. Warwick, the housekeeper.

“It’s lovely to meet you, Mrs. Crocombe, Mrs. Warwick,” Crowley replied with a curtsy much more graceful than Kate’s had been. “My name is Antonia Crowley, and I’m seeking employment in the kitchens.” She pulled two envelopes from within the pocket of her cloak, taking one to each of the seated women. “These are my references from my previous house. I believe you’ll find me a more than capable and dependable worker.”

“Is there something the matter with your eyes, girl?” Mrs. Warwick asked sharply as she took the envelope with her slender, boney hands.

Crowley’s hand went to her dark spectacles, which hid her serpentine yellow eyes. She bit back the snide remark forming on her tongue at being called _girl._ She’d lived a hundred of this old hag’s lives on Earth and would live a hundred more after she was dead.

_Girl._

“Yes, Mrs. Warwick,” she said dutifully with a prim little curtsy. “An ailment that runs in my family. But it doesn’t affect my work, I promise you that.”

“That’s not a problem, Antonia,” Mrs. Crocombe said in an easy and friendly manner entirely unsuited to a woman of her status. She had a pleasantly round face, and dark, slightly graying hair that was mostly covered with a heavily pleated cap designating her as the cook. “I do believe you’ll be wanting a tour of the service wing now?”

“If it pleases you, Mrs. Crocombe,” Crowley replied.

Mrs. Crocombe stood, straightening her white apron over her maroon floral dress.

“You may leave your bag here, by my desk,” she said, gesturing to the floor, “and then we shall be off.”

Crowley nodded and deposited her bag in the designated space and followed the cook out of the sitting room and back into the heat of the kitchen.

“This is the kitchen, where you would spend the majority of your time,” Mrs. Crocombe stated, loud enough to be heard over the sound of the maids preparing the food. “On the average day, we prepare four meals for three different tables — the upper table, for Lord and Lady Braybrooke and their guests, the upper servants, and the lower servants. I’m sure this is nothing unfamiliar to you. You worked in a scullery and then as a kitchen maid in Oxfordshire, correct?”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe, that is correct,” Crowley lied smoothly. She’d been meticulous in crafting her backstory and references, and used a few minor miracles in order to achieve the positive word of mouth recommendations that all these old country homes thrived on when hiring servants.

“Very good,” Mrs. Crocombe nodded. She eyed Crowley over. “Now I run a tight, clean kitchen. I expect nothing less than your very best effort. You are aware that this is only a temporary position, correct?”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe.” It only needed to be temporary. Crowley had every intention of leaving as soon as infernally possible and taking a _very_ long nap after finishing this job.

“Excellent. Our second kitchen maid, Sylvia, was suddenly called away to deal with a family emergency,” she explained briskly. “She’s unsure of how long she will be gone, but she intends to return once everything calms. If, at that time, there is an open position somewhere else in the household, you are welcome to apply for it. Otherwise, we shall write you a reference based on your work here and that shall be all.”

Crowley nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Crocombe. I appreciate the opportunity here.”

“Good girl,” the cook smiled. “Now, follow me to the pastry room.”

She led Crowley through a door to the left of the hallway entrance. The pastry room was much smaller than the kitchen, and much cooler. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the noise of the cooking maids.

“This is the pastry,” Mrs. Crocombe said, gesturing around the little room. Against the wall opposite the door was a long counter with a marble slab and brass scales sitting on top of it. Above it were glass front cabinets filled with a variety of cooking supplies. Below were more drawers and cabinets. “Now, Sylvia normally makes the pastry and bread. I know in some households, the dairy maid is in charge of bread, but as the dairy isn’t connected to the kitchen, and with the amount of milk Fanny must process each day, we prefer to keep bread making to the kitchen maids. Are you familiar with bread and pastry?”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe.” Crowley had seen the beginnings of domesticated wheat and the discovery of leavening. Bread was a simple food that humans had been making in some form or another since the Beginning.

Mrs. Crocombe smiled. “Very good. Would you mind demonstrating how to make a suet crust for me?” She gestured to the equipment before them, which included a set of sleeve covers, bowls of flour and suet, and a jug of water.

“Not at all, Mrs. Crocombe,” Crowley said, grabbing the sleeve covers and pulling them onto her arms.

With practiced skill, she set the scales to the desired weights and measured out the proper amounts of flour and suet, slowly adding water and stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon until it came together in a cohesive mass of pastry. A simple dough with a multitude of uses in the kitchen. The entire process took only minutes, but Mrs. Crocombe watched her closely at every step.

At last, Crowley stepped back and allowed Mrs. Crocombe to examine her work up close. The cook poked at the dough gently, pinched a little piece off, and rolled it between her fingers, checking for consistency and texture.

“Hmmmm,” she hummed softly. “Yes, this will do quite nicely. A very good job, indeed, Antonia.”

Crowley allowed herself a humble little smile and a tiny curtsy. “Thank you, Mrs. Crocombe.”

“Have you any questions about the position?” She eyed Crowley with her intense gaze, sizing her up.

“No, Mrs. Crocombe.”

“Very well, then I shall return to my sitting room and read over your character with Mrs. Warwick. As we’re discussing the possibility of your employment, you may stay in the kitchen and speak with Mary Ann and Annie.”

“Thank you for the consideration,” Crowley said, and followed the cook back out of the pastry and into the kitchen.

“Mary Ann, Annie,” Mrs. Crocombe called over the sounds of the kitchen. The two young women, one stirring a pot on the range while the other chopped stalks of celery on the center table, turned immediately to look at their superior. “This is Antonia Crowley, the new prospective second kitchen maid. Antonia, this is Mary Ann Bulmer, first kitchen maid,” the maid at the range, a sturdy girl in her mid twenties, nodded, “and Annie Chase, scullery maid,” the other maid, a slender teenage girl, gave a small wave. “She’s going to wait here whilst I speak with Mrs. Warwick and we make a decision on whether she will be joining us in this household. Please make her feel welcome.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe,” they said in unison, and the cook smiled and returned to her sitting room, closing the door firmly behind her.

“It’s nice to meet you, Antonia,” Annie Chase said as she continued to chop the vegetables before her. “I hope you get the job. It’s been hard with just two maids in the kitchen.”

“Yes,” Mary Ann agreed, taking a small spoon and tasting what was in her pot. “And Lord and Lady Braybrooke are having a visitor arriving this week. That always puts the pressure on the kitchens, trying to cater to new tastes and impress the guest.”

Crowley’s interest piqued. This was _exactly_ why she was here in the kitchens. Information was so freely given amongst the maids.

“Oh?” Crowley asked, trying to keep her tone only mildly curious as she floated closer to the two girls. “Is the visitor some sort of nobility?”

“No, I think he’s a professor or something,” Annie said.

“Something to do with literature, I think Eliza heard,” Mary Ann added. “And from a very good family.”

“Well, _I_ heard Mrs. Warwick tell Mrs. Crocombe and Mr. Vert that he’s a bit of a snob about food,” Annie said conspiratorially, trying to one up the other maid. “Wanted to make sure they knew that everything _has_ to be absolutely perfect because he’s so particular.”

“There is _no way_ that Mrs. Warwick _actually_ used the word ‘snob’,” Mary Ann said with a roll of her eyes.

“Are you calling me a liar, Miss Bulmer?” Annie jested, turning around to face Mary Ann with a look of playful offense.

Mary Ann simply turned her head over her shoulder, false boredom coloring her voice. “I’m calling you an _embellisher_ , Miss Chase.” And then she turned her full attention back on the range.

Annie locked eyes with Crowley for a moment, and a wickedly mischievous look glinted in her eyes. She picked up a small piece of celery — one of the offcuts destined for either the compost or the stockpot — and chucked it at the back of Mary Ann’s head, whipping back around before it even made contact.

Mary Ann gasped and spun to face Annie, her face alight with outrage.

“Annie Chase, you _did not_ just throw a bit of celery at me!” she cried out, dipping her fingers in a small bowl of water to the left of the stove and flicking it at the younger girl, no demonic influences needed.

Annie let out a cackle and soon both girls were doubled over with laughter.

At least this wasn’t a stuffy household, it seemed.

“We like to have fun here in the kitchens,” Mary Ann directed at Crowley, wiping a tear from her eye. “Mrs. Crocombe expects the best out of us, but she gives us a lot more freedom than other houses this grand would. As long as we work hard, we’re allowed to mess about a bit.”

“Sounds like a good place to work,” Crowley noted. “How long have you been here, Mary Ann?” Any information she could get on the recent history of the house could potentially help her figure out what the Heaven she was supposed to be doing here.

“Oh, about a year and a half,” Mary Ann said, returning to the stove. “It’s nice to work in a house so large with so many other maids. Less lonely, and a lot less work. I started out as a maid of all works up in Scarborough. Lodging house. Talk about a nightmare of a job. Much better being out here in a nice respectable country house.”

“Working in the scullery isn’t a walk in the garden, but I’d rather be chopping vegetables and plucking fowl at the crack of dawn for the rest of my life than be a maid of all works at a _lodging house_ ,” Annie muttered, picking up all the sliced celery and plopping it in an empty bowl. She grabbed an apple and began to peel it carefully with her knife.

“What about you, Antonia?” Mary Ann asked. “What’s your story?”

Crowley didn’t get a chance to recite her phony backstory, because just as she opened her mouth to speak, Mrs. Crocombe emerged from her sitting room with Mrs. Warwick.

“Alright, Antonia,” Mrs. Crocombe said with a smile. “Mrs. Warwick and myself have decided to hire you for the temporary kitchen maid position. You shall start in the morning.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Crocombe,” Crowley said pleasantly. “I truly appreciate the opportunity to prove myself in such an esteemed house.”

“Typically,” the cook explained, eyeing Crowley from head to toe, “kitchen staff are required to wear dresses in some shade of red or orange. That would, of course, be prefered, though if you haven’t a dress in the suitable color, we can make an exception, as you’ll only be with us temporarily.”

Crowley smiled, a rust colored dress miraculously appearing in her bag in the cook’s sitting room. “I believe I have something suitable, Mrs. Crocombe.”

“Very good. Annie, can you show Antonia the rest of the service wing and introduce her to Fanny?” Mrs,. Crocombe asked the scullery maid. “Then you can show her to her accomodations and return to the kitchen to finish with dinner preparations.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe,” Annie said, setting down her peeled apple and wiping her hands on a rag tucked into her apron. “Come with me, Antonia.”

Annie led Crowley through the kitchen and to a door just past Mrs. Crocombe’s sitting room.

“This is the scullery,” Annie said, gesturing to the room, which was lined with tables and various utensils. She pointed to a door to the left. “The larders are through there, as well as the staircase up to our rooms.”

They walked through a door to the right that led outside to a plain courtyard area surrounded by large hedges that kept the service area hidden from the view of guests.

Annie pointed out the game larder and coal shed and meat locker as they passed by, on their way to the next main building of the service wing, which Annie explained wasn’t connected to the main house.

“That’s the door to the laundry,” she pattered as they passed the first door on the building. “There are two laundry maids, Sarah and Ellen. You’ll meet them at dinner. And this up here is the dairy scullery.”

Annie opened the door and led Crowley inside the scullery, which looked much the same as the one in the kitchen, with various pieces of equipment and utensils waiting to be washed. They continued on through a small sitting room that looked barely used, and then into the dairy proper.

A plump woman of about thirty was busy pouring milk from a white jug into large, shallow bowls that sat on the counter tops lining the room. She looked up when she heard the door open and smiled.

“Fancy seeing you here, Annie,” she greeted the younger girl warmly. “Who’ve you got with you?”

“Fanny, this is Antonia Crowley, the temporary second kitchen maid,” Annie introduced. “Antonia, this is Fanny Cowley, the dairy maid.” She paused for a moment, as though something had just occurred to her, and then started to laugh. “Crowley and Cowley! It’s a good thing the census already came to pass because you two would confuse the poor bloke taking down names!”

“Annie, you’re ridiculous,” Fanny said with a roll of her eyes. “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Antonia. You couldn’t have come at a better time.”

“So I’ve been told,” Crowley replied. “I hear there’s a visitor coming soon.”

“Oh, Lord in Heaven,” Fanny said, exasperated. “Please tell me that they haven’t poisoned you with their hysteria over this guest.”

“We’re not being _hysterical_ ,” Annie complained. “It’s just been stressful without Sylvia! You know how much work there is in making the food presentable when the Braybrookes have guests.”

“ _One_ guest, Annie,” Fanny pointed out. “And if what I heard from Sarah is true, there aren’t even going to be any servants coming with him. There’s no point in getting Antonia all worked up over a single guest.”

“I like a little excitement,” Crowley said. “Keeps things interesting.”

“Well, with Annie and Mary Ann acting as though this man is the second coming of Christ, I’m sure it’ll be quite exciting in the kitchens. I’m just glad I don’t have to keep making the bread, now that you’re here.”

Annie sighed heavily at Fanny’s statement, but she smiled. “Alright, Mrs, Crocombe just wanted me to introduce you to Antonia, so we should be heading back to the kitchens.”

“It was good to meet you, Antonia,” Fanny said, continuing to pour the milk so the cream could separate. “Let me know if you need any help with the bread. My father was a baker by trade.”

“Thank you for the offer,” Crowley replied with a smile, and followed Annie back through the dairy and the courtyard until they were back in the kitchen scullery.

“I’ll show you upstairs to our rooms,” Annie said, guiding her through the door she’s previously indicated. They passed through another two doors to reach a narrow staircase.

“Mind your step,” Annie warned as they ascended to an attic type hallway with a door on either side. “You’ll share with Mary Ann, since you two will have to wake up at the same time in the morning.”

They went into the room on the right, which was very plain and simply furnished. On either side of the room was a bed, trunk, and night table with a small oil lamp. A small, curtained window was in the center of the far wall with a desk and chair in front of it. The bed on the left was neatly made and had a couple of books sitting atop the table. The other bed was unmade, with a stack of linens sitting on the mattress, her traveling bag beside it.

“It’s not much, but at least it stays warm because it’s above the kitchen,” Annie noted. “You’re welcome to stay up here and get settled. Dinner is in about an hour, if you want to come down.”

“Thank you, Annie,” Crowley said.

Annie smiled and left, leaving Crowley alone in the little, austere room.

Crowley sat down on the edge of her bed, running her hand across the rough fabric of the mattress. It was a far cry from her own bed back in London, which was the best that money could buy. She’d spent the last nineteen years asleep on it, it was so bloody comfortable.

She doubted she’d have that problem here.

Still, though, with any hope at all, she wouldn’t be here for very long. Sure, going undercover required certain sacrifices, but she was good at her job. She was good with _people_. She would figure out who or what needed tempting, get on with it, and be on her merry way within a fortnight. Then Hell would get off of her back again and she could return home to her plush mattress and silk sheets, leaving Audley End and its service wing behind without a trace of her existence.

Crowley knew she should hit the ground running on this assignment. Hell would be expecting a preliminary report with her initial observations by the next day. It would be to her benefit to head downstairs to the servants’ dining hall and start getting to know her fellow workers, listen in on their conversations, and begin piecing together the bigger picture of what was going on in the house and below the stairs. But she simply couldn’t bring herself to do so. Instead, she unpacked her traveling bag, placing her sparse belongings inside the trunk, and made her bed with the stiff cotton sheets and scratchy wool blanket provided to her. The job at hand could wait until tomorrow. Tonight was her last chance to relax before the hard work began, the long hours spent frantic in the hot kitchen below her, juggling her duties as a maid with her duties as an agent of Hell.

Yes, all of that could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, she would sleep, like she’d done since 1862, when a quarrel with an angel had made everything just _all too much_ and she’d decided that a nice, decades-long nap was exactly what she needed to quiet her damned soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the fic comes from the song “Juanita” by Caroline Norton, and the chapter title from “Home, Sweet Home!” by John Howard Payne.
> 
> A lot of the personalities of Annie and Mary Ann come from Bernadette Banner’s “We Met Mrs. Crocombe” video. All other servants are based on the canon Victorian Way videos. Though all of the servants mentioned in this fic were real people who actually lived and worked at Audley End in 1881, because of their low status, very little is known about their actual personalities. I have attempted to stay both true to the fiction of the webseries while also keeping in mind what the lives of Victorian servants were actually like. I hope I’ve struck a nice balance.
> 
> I have this entire fic outlined and a good chunk of it already written, so I’m hoping to update fairly regularly!


	2. each moment was too bright to stay

_and yet the dream has pass'd away,  
_ _tho' like it lived it pass'd;_  
_each moment was too bright to stay,  
_ _but sparkled to the last._

— “My Sweetheart When a Boy”, Frederick Enoch, 1870 

Crowley woke precisely on time.

Unfortunately.

Kitchen maids began their day at half an hour past six in the morning, so Crowley had to rise at six with Mary Ann to ready herself. Before the other girl could light the lantern on the desk between their beds, Crowley had her spectacles firmly in place.

Quietly and methodically, she slipped her wool stockings over her pale, slender legs, securing them with lengths of black ribbon below her knees so they wouldn’t fall down throughout the day. She pulled her drawers on and removed her nightdress, replacing it with her linen chemise. Next came her black leather boots, and then her corset.

It had been a long time since she’d regularly worn a corset, but she hoped whoever invented the front closing busk never had a bad day in their life. So much better than the days of needing help or fan lacing to tighten your laces, or shoving a piece of wood down the front. What with how much of a pain corsets were to get into by one’s self, she was surprised it took so long for someone to create a fix. Under normal circumstances — ones where she wasn’t sharing a room with a human — she would simply have the clothing of her choice appear miraculously on her body. Otherwise, she’d probably never choose to present as female at all.

No, the front closing busk was definitely an improvement, she mused as she lined up the little metal loops and posts. Once in place, she pulled her laces taut and tied them in front, allowing the sturdy fabric and thin, flexible baleen to support her bust and back, which she’d surely need working on her feet all day.

Her corset well in place, she added her simple, flounced petticoat, and stepped into her rust colored dress, doing up the hooks and eyes and buttons that ran down the front.

Taking a seat at the edge of the bed, she tugged at the ribbon keeping her long hair in its night plait and combed her fingers through it until it hung in loose curls around her waist. She allowed her index finger to glide down the center of her scalp, straightening her part before sweeping her long, red locks up into a simple and tidy bun at the back of her head and securing it with a hairpin. She gently shook her head back and forth to check that it wouldn’t fall and then pulled on her white hair cap and apron.

“Ready for your first day, Antonia?” Mary Ann asked, also adjusting her cap upon her light brown hair.

“As I’ll ever be, I do suppose,” Crowley replied mildly.

Mary Ann smiled. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll have me to show you around, and Mrs. Crocombe really is a wonderful cook to work for. You’re going to be just fine.”

Crowley gave her a kind smile in return. “Thank you, Mary Ann.”

“It’s not a problem, really. Now, we must get downstairs to start breakfast. Follow me.”

Crowley followed the girl down the narrow stairs, past the larder and through the scullery, where Annie was already hard at work scrubbing the produce clean with a stiff brush in the sink.

“Morning, Annie,” Mary Ann said as they passed by.

“Good morning, Mary Ann. Good morning, Antonia,” the young girl replied, barely looking up from the carrots she was scouring, and Crowley and Mary Ann continued into the kitchen.

The fires in the range along the left wall were already lit and roaring, heating the room considerably.

“Mrs. Crocombe will be down in about half an hour to begin working on the breakfast for the top table,” Mary Ann explained, going around the table in the center of the room to the storage counters on the right. She grabbed a bowl and several wooden cooking utensils from their storage places and handed them off to Crowley, filling her own arms with supplies as well. “It’s our job to start preparing the ingredients for breakfast and get the day’s bread baking. Fanny started the dough for you last night, so once we set up, you will begin the bread while I start working on the simple breakfast dishes.”

“Understood,” Crowley said, following Mary Ann to her spot on the preparation table and depositing the supplies she’d been handed.

“The bread dough is over in the pastry. We need two inch bread rolls for the breakfast table,” Mary Ann told her as she grabbed the flour that Annie had already laid out and began measuring out the proper amount into a bowl. “You may go start on that and then meet me back in here to help with preparing the vegetables for Mrs. Crocombe.”

Crowley nodded and headed for the pastry door. Sure enough, there was a large bowl of dough sitting on the counter, covered with a tea towel. She opened one of the cabinets and found a baking sheet and pulled a knife out of a drawer and began to cut into the risen dough, watching the air escape as she rolled the pieces into even balls, placing them evenly on the metal sheet. She made quick work of the rolls and then dusted the tea towel with excess flour and covered them again to rise before the oven.

Satisfied with the rolls, she went back into the kitchen and allowed Mary Ann to instruct her on a number of menial tasks, from weighing ingredients to peeling and chopping. When Mrs. Crocombe arrived half an hour later with a cheerful, “Good morning, girls,” she set to work on the various dishes for the top table’s breakfast buffet, occasionally stopping to delegate a task to Mary Ann, who would, in turn, delegate a task to Crowley. The kitchen was efficient and streamlined, a well-oiled machine, churning out delicate and intricate dishes right when the footmen arrived at the hatch by the door to take them to the Lord and Lady of the house. Shortly after the last dish for the top table went out, the food for the upper servants was whisked away, and Mrs. Crocombe excused herself to breakfast, leaving Crowley, Mary Ann, and Annie to finish the lower servants’ simple food for the large dining hall.

“It’s not so bad,” Mary Ann noted, wiping her hands on the kitchen towel at her waist. “You’re doing really well keeping up, Antonia.”

Crowley nodded with a smile. “I’ve been in worse jobs, that’s for certain,” she said, thinking back to all of the assignments Hell had sent her on that required things like horses and dogs and slumming in the streets. Comparatively, the kitchen, while busy and hot, was an alright place to be stationed.

There was no rest for the kitchen maids when breakfast for the lowest table was served, as they immediately jumped into the preparations for lunch and tea while stealing tiny bites of food whenever they got the chance. Crowley was fine with this arrangement, as it gave her ample opportunity to discreetly dispose of her food while maintaining the illusion that she was eating.

“I usually eat in the dining hall with the other lower servants,” Mary Ann explained as she took a bite of her pancakes. “But since you’re just finding your footing today, I thought it would be best to stay and help you out.”

“I really do appreciate it, Mary Ann,” Crowley said as Annie brought a bowl of washed and scrubbed vegetables and set it on the preparations table in front of herself and Mary Ann. She grabbed a carrot and began chopping it. “This is my first time in a house this grand.”

_ At least as a maid. _

Breakfast was quickly over and Mrs. Crocombe returned to the kitchen, floating calmly through the cacophony of organized and controlled chaos. Crowley kept her thoughts firmly on her work, careful to keep up the required pace, and paid close attention to anything Mary Ann or Mrs. Crocombe said or did. She had no idea how long she was going to be here, so she needed to establish herself as a quick and competent worker, and also learn where everything she might need was kept.

She hated bumbling around like a fool trying to locate things in an unfamiliar kitchen.

Much chopping and stirring and stewing later, it was lunchtime, and she was once again left with the other two maids to tend over the dishes still on the range.

“This seems like a perfect place to work,” Crowley noted casually as she leaned against the table with her plate of savory pudding in her hands. “Seems that there must surely be a catch. No house is this good to work in, right?”

Mary Ann and Annie let out a giggle. “It’s better than a lot of places, that’s for certain,” Mary Ann said, taking a bite of her pudding. “The turnover is high, like most country houses. I don’t know if anyone in the house has been here for more than five years or so.”

“It’s partially because they had to reduce the staff,” Annie added. “Money troubles. They used to have a French chef, but he was too expensive to keep, so they hired Mrs. Crocombe.”

“I think I prefer it that way,” Mary Ann said. “French chefs are so up themselves. There’s nothing a French man can do that an English woman can’t without a third the amount of butter.”

“Exactly,” Annie agreed. “I don’t see how any cook or chef could possibly be worth over a hundred pounds a year. Could you even imagine having that much money?”

“I know,” Mary Ann said wistfully. “I can hardly even imagine making a professed cook’s salary!”

“Weren’t you here last year when all of that… unpleasantness was going on, Mary Ann?” Annie asked.

Crowley’s eyes widened. “Unpleasantness?” she prompted quickly.

Mary Ann nodded solemnly. “Last year, one of the gamekeepers was murdered.”

“Murdered?” she gasped with showy horror.  _ Finally, _ something she could sink her teeth into.

“Local poacher,” Mary Ann explained. “It was really a shocking event. I hadn’t been here that long when it happened.”

“The man who did it was sentenced to hang,” Annie added dramatically. “But new evidence came up and he was given life imprisonment instead.”

“Don’t sound so excited, Annie,” Mary Ann scolded the younger girl. “It’s indecent.”

Annie huffed at the chidding and continued her work.

“Gamekeepers aren’t the most popular of folks, are they?” Crowley mused, hoping to get as much information on the topic as possible. Whether or not the murder was related to what she was meant to be doing here, she didn’t know. But it was a solid starting point.

Mary Ann shook her head. “Not at all,” she said. “I do feel bad. They keep themselves so separated from those of us who work in the house. Such an insular group. The townsfolk don’t like them because they stop the poaching, so they really have no community besides their fellows.”

“How unfortunate,” Crowley agreed.

So the house did have at least somewhat of a recent dark history. It could be nothing, but it could also be vitally important. Regardless, it was something she could at least submit in her preliminary report as a starting point.

She mentally composed her report throughout the rest of the day, breaking only to socialize with the other kitchen staff at tea time. She didn’t learn much else that seemed important, though she did have a little chat with Mrs. Crocombe about the estate’s expansive kitchen gardens and orchards.

“You shall have to speak with Edgar,” Mrs. Crocombe said as she sipped her tea. “He’s one of our gardeners. If you have an interest in the gardens, he would be the perfect person to talk to.”

Crowley was thankful when dinner did finally come, and the hustle and bustle of the day was almost over. Once all of the food for the top table went out, the rest was simply a task of cleaning and tidying the kitchen and finishing the far simpler meals for the servants. Mary Ann instructed her to go get the next day’s bread ready for their overnight rise, which she accomplished with only a mild demonic miracle. When the dough was finished, Crowley went back into the kitchen and began throwing out the food scraps, saving anything worth reusing, and tossing the rest in a bucket for the trash or compost. Then she filled another bucket with water from the sink and began sweeping and mopping the floors. Annie was in the scullery, scouring the copper until it shined brightly once more, bringing back the pots to hang in their proper place on the kitchen’s wall racks. Mary Ann wiped down the preparation table with hot, soapy water and cleaned out the range so it was ready to be lit the next morning.

“Everything looks good, girls,” Mary Ann said as she surveyed the kitchen, now spotless and orderly as though it hadn’t just been subjected to over twelve hours of chaos. “I think Mrs. Crocombe will be quite pleased with it. I think it’s time we head to dinner.”

“You’ll finally get to meet all of the other servants,” Annie said excitedly as the trio left down the hall to the main house and took a left. “Dinner is the only time we ever really see them, apart from seeing the footmen through the hatch and the gardeners when they bring in the produce.”

Crowley nodded vaguely as Mary Ann pushed open the wooden door to the dining hall.

The large room had several long tables in a row, all laid with the food that they’d finished preparing earlier. There were about two dozen people already tucking in, men and women, young and old. Crowley recognized the maid who had taken her to her interview, and some of the footmen she’d seen through the hatch in the kitchen.

“Over here,” Mary Ann said, guiding her to a table with several empty seats. Fanny from the Dairy was already seated, in deep conversation with two woman in blue next to her.

Fanny looked up as the trio sat down. “Ah, our kitchen girls!” she said happily. “How was your first day, Antonia? Did Annie talk your ear off?”

Crowley smiled at her. “It went quite well,” she told her. “Thank you.”

“I resent the implication that I talk too much, Fanny,” Annie added, shooting a withering glare at the dairy maid.

“You  _ do  _ talk too much, Annie,” one of the women in blue, who looked to be in her thirties, pointed out.

“Sarah, I’m hurt!” Annie exclaimed dramatically, clutching her heart.

“Antonia, this is Sarah Barrance from the laundry,” Mary Ann said quickly, gesturing to the woman who had spoken. “And this is Ellen Findell, also from the laundry.” The other girl, about Mary Ann’s age, smiled and gave a little wave.

“It’s very nice to meet you both,” Crowley said politely, reaching towards a serving platter in the center of the table which held some boiled meat and vegetables and placing a small serving on her own plate. With so many people all eating and talking, it would be easy to use some minor miracles to make her food disappear from her plate.

The young women around her all launched into their conversations, talking over each other, laughing, teasing, and very rarely requiring any substantial input from Crowley. She allowed her eyes to dance around the room, examining the faces of the other servants she’d yet to meet. They were largely segregated by sex, women and men sitting apart from each other, their dress denoting their positions in the house.

Crowley spotted a group of young men who were dressed much more casually than the others. They must be the gardeners, as all of the footmen were dressed to be seen by the family and their guests. The gardeners were dressed only to be seen by the produce.

“Which one of them is Edgar?” Crowley asked Mary Ann, nodding in the direction of the gardeners.

“Ah, he's the blond, in the center,” she said, gesturing to a young man with golden hair and a sturdy build. His face was round and jovial, and he looked rather like a Botticelli cherub (and absolutely nothing like the real thing).

Mary Ann bumped Crowley with her shoulder and gave her a teasing smile. “Looking for a nice young gardener to sweep you off your feet, are you, Antonia?” she jested.

Crowley felt her face grow hot in spite of herself. “I was simply asking Mrs. Crocombe about the kitchen gardens earlier during tea,” she said. “She told me that I should talk with Edgar about it.”

“Have an interest in gardening?” Fanny asked.

“I’ve been around gardens my entire life,” Crowley said. “The gardens here seem impressive. I enjoy hearing about the latest developments in the craft.”

All true. She had loved the Garden of Eden, and had been disappointed when the humans were banished from it. She’d kept a variety of houseplants wherever she lived for as long as she’d been on Earth.

“You’ll find no better gardens in the country,” Annie told her. “Mr. Vert, the head gardener, is really young, but he has a magical touch when it comes to plants.”

Crowley nodded and allowed the conversation around her to continue on. She didn’t learn much else of importance, but she made sure to show just enough interest in the petty affairs of her fellow maids that she’d be able to get more information from them later without seeming too suspicious.

When her plate was almost empty (the majority of her food finding its way onto her neighbors’ plates when they weren’t looking) she told her fellows that she was going to retire early to write a letter, bidding them all a goodnight and telling Mary Ann that she’d see her back in their shared room.

She made her way out of the dining hall, back through the kitchen, and to the narrow staircase that led to her room. The day had been utterly exhausting, with the work itself and all of the socializing. But she wasn’t done yet.

Crowley grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen out of her trunk and sat at the desk against the wall, quickly writting out her preliminary findings, including the information she’d learned about the murder. Overall, she had very little to truly report on, but the murder of a staff member and money troubles in the family had to count for  _ something  _ in the eyes of Hell. They were all about that sort of thing. And even if it ended up being a dead end, no one could claim she wasn’t  _ trying. _

As soon as she had finished writing and had signed her infernal name at the bottom of the page, the ink seemed to sink in and disappear, before messy, black splotches rose back to the surface of paper, forming four barely legible words.

_ Get it done, Crowley. _

And then the ink slowly faded away, though she could still feel the mark of demonic energy left behind, a reminder that Hell wasn’t particularly pleased with her at present.

“Writing home?” Mary Ann asked, suddenly standing right over Crowley’s shoulder and peering down at the paper.

Crowley jumped and grabbed the blank page, crumpling it in her fist. She hadn’t even heard the girl enter the room. Maybe her extended nap really  _ had  _ put her off her game.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize it was private,” Mary Ann apologized. “Is it a letter to your sweetheart?”

“I don’t have a sweetheart,” Crowley said, though memories she didn’t want to think about tried to surface in her mind. She beat back the smell of paper and leather and wine and bon bons.

“It’s alright. I haven’t got one, either.” She began to strip out of her dress and underpinnings, letting out a contented sigh when she undid her corset. “Fanny’s got a boy, though. He’s a joiner.”

“Must be nice,” Crowley murmured, standing up from the desk and placing her pen and crumpled paper in the truck at the foot of her bed.

“I’m unsure about marriage,” Mary Ann mused as she sat down on the edge of her bed and rubbed her skin through her shift, the areas where the corset had dug in throughout the day.

“How so?” Crowley asked vaguely, knowing it was only polite to ask, but only really caring about getting out of her own dress and underthings.

“I like the idea of it and all,” Mary Ann said as she reached over the foot of the bed to grab a nightdress — almost indistinguishable from the shift she was already wearing — from her trunk. “It seems nice, having someone there for you. Someone you love. But…” She trailed off as she quickly changed out of the shift into the nightdress. Crowley politely looked away to give her a little privacy. “I like working,” she continued. “I like having my own money. And it might not be much, but it’s  _ mine, _ you know?”

Crowley nodded as she unhooked the busk of her corset. “Maybe one day, it will be different,” she offered.

Mary Ann laughed. “You sound like Mrs. Warwick, will all her talk of women’s suffrage.” Mary Ann sighed wistfully. “I don’t know that things will ever change so much.”

Crowley remained silent and felt a pang of guilt in her chest as she changed into her nightdress. Nearly six thousand years, and the plight of women had only gotten marginally better, their lot had only barely improved.

And whose fault was that? Mankind’s? A curious woman in a garden? A serpent who had whispered in her ear? A creator who played by their own rules?

Crowley knew who she blamed deep in her heart.

Best not to think about it.

“Goodnight, Mary Ann,” Crowley whispered as she turned her head away and removed her glasses, hiding her yellow serpentine eyes from view.

“Goodnight, Antonia,” Mary Ann replied, still sounding a little wistful as she snuffed out the candle and plunged the little room into darkness.

Crowley stared at the wall for a long time, until Mary Ann’s breathing went slow and even and she’d exhausted herself with thoughts of good and evil and apples and books and wine and friendly smiles and arguments in pristine parks, and allowed the oblivion of sleep to wash over her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CORSETS AREN’T TORTURE DEVICES. THEY’RE BASICALLY JUST BRAS. I’ll shout that from the Heavens themselves until everyone stops with the nonsense.
> 
> Title of the chapter is from the song My Sweetheart When a Boy by Frederick Enoch.
> 
> I had originally planned for this story to be 6 chapters and an epilogue, but whilst writing this chapter, I realized that I really needed to split it in two in order to maintain a decent pace, so now it’s slated to be 7 chapters with an epilogue. Hopefully nothing else needs to be split, because I’m running out of period appropriate song lyrics to use for chapter titles!
> 
> Also, big thanks to my fiancée for proofreading and encouraging me.


	3. it was best to leave you thus, dear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternally sorry for the lack of updates the last two weeks. I was perhaps a little ambitious thinking I could keep to a schedule in the middle of a move.

_for my heart was tossed with longing  
_ _what had been could never be_  
_it was best to leave you thus, dear,  
_ _best for you, and best for me_

— “In the Gloaming”, Meta Orred, 1877 

Crowley fell into a groove over the next two days, performing her tasks flawlessly with barely a need to tell her what to do next. She humbly accepted praise from Mrs. Crocombe and went toe to toe with Annie in the banter department and shared quiet moments of thought with Mary Ann. And at dinner, she beguiled her tablemates with stories of previous jobs, adapted to fit her current narrative.

She made herself incredibly easy to talk to, all through her own show of charm. Miracles and deception could only get a demon so far, after all. At a certain point, one needed to rely on one’s own people skills to get the information needed. Unfortunately for most demons, that wasn’t a skill that could be cultivated in Hell. It required centuries of learning first hand what made humans tick. 

Crowley had been on Earth since the Beginning. She  _ knew _ humans, knew how they worked and operated. And that got her the kinds of results her infernal coworkers could only dream about (if any of them could, in fact, dream). And that was why Hell  _ usually _ didn’t mind if she disappeared off the grid for a few decades. Results were results, regardless of how anyone felt about her personally, and most of the higher ups (or lower downs, depending on your perspective) didn’t actually care what she did most of the time. Why her absence was suddenly a problem was beyond her. Someone in management probably just had a bee firmly up their arse and wanted someone to take it out on.

Her money was on Hastur.

Didn’t matter, though. The point was that she was a professional at the gentle pushing and prodding that made humans think you were just being friendly, and not fishing for information. This should have been an easy job.

And yet...

Besides the murder and the money troubles, the worst thing that seemed to have happened recently was a fire the previous year. A completely ordinary accident with nothing to hint at arson. Fires happened all the time, what with the way ovens and stove ranges worked these days. Cooking fats and flour and cotton towels were so flammable. The kitchen underwent a renovation after, but there was nothing to suggest that anything unsavory happened during the rebuilding. No signs of bodies under the floorboards. Nothing.

The job could be worse, though, despite the fact that she truly loathed how sore her muscles were after the long hours of constant standing and lifting and moving. But the other kitchen maids were pleasant. The environment was clean and warm. Mrs. Crocombe, while stern and no-nonsense, was kind and compassionate. She never lost her temper with the girls under her control.

Crowley had even tested how far her patience would go with a little light mischief.

On her second day in the kitchen, the bowl of sugar that Mary Ann was using to line a sponge cake tin transformed into a bowl of salt.

The mistake was not caught until after the cake was removed from the oven.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Crocombe!” Mary Ann cried when the cook discovered what had happened. “I don’t know I could have made such a mistake!”

Crowley almost felt bad about what she’d done.

(Almost.)

“It’s quite alright, Mary Ann,” Mrs. Crocombe told her kindly. “We’ll simply cut off the edges and use it in a pudding.”

Mary Ann nodded, biting down on her lip to keep it from trembling. “I will do better, Mrs. Crocombe. I promise.”

The cook smiled at her. “I know that you will, Mary Ann,” she said. “We shall just have to be more careful next time to ensure we don’t make the same mistake twice. Cooking is about learning from one’s mistakes.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe.”

“You can remake the sponge cake tomorrow,” Mrs. Crocombe decided. “That will give you an opportunity to redeem yourself.”

Mary Ann beamed. “Thank you, Mrs. Crocombe!”

On the third day, the stitching on Annie’s hem failed, causing her to trip and sending the girl — and the half dozen eggs she was bringing in from the larder — flying across the floors with a spectacular mess.

Mrs. Crocombe swooped in quickly and calmly, ushering Annie back to her feet.

“There you are,” she said, helping the girl adjust her skirt. “Are you hurt, Annie?”

Annie shook her head. “Not terribly, Mrs. Crocombe,” she replied. “But I’ve made such a mess!”

“It’s easy to clean a mess, Annie,” Mrs. Crocombe pointed out. “Less easy to mend a broken bone. Now, let’s clean up these eggs, and then I shall find you a needle and thread to tack up that hem until you can mend it properly.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Crocombe.”

Clearly, the woman had some sort of saintly patience when it came to her kitchen staff.

(Less so with slow gardeners, but that was quite normal. Gardeners weren’t so often under the sort of strict deadlines the kitchens were under, and didn’t seem to understand that apples being late to the kitchen meant an entire  _ course _ being late to the table.)

On the fourth day, the kitchen didn’t need any demonic mischief to have everyone on edge. Because that was the day the guest arrived.

“Alright, girls,” Mrs. Crocombe said as she strode into the kitchen at half past six that morning, the picture of calm confidence. “Our guest arrives this morning. All dishes that leave for the top table must be absolutely perfect. I’ll accept nothing less.”

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe,” they all replied, barely sparing the cook a glance as they continued with their preparations.

There was no joking or laughing in the kitchen. No pleasant conversations. Just a flurry of chopping and frying and steaming and decorating as breakfast drew closer and closer. Around eight, Mrs, Crocombe excused herself to speak with Lady Braybrooke about any last minute additions she might like to make to the menu for the day in order to impress their guest. The breakfast buffet was much the same as it had been the previous days, with its wide array of dishes, but more care was being taken with the finishings, garnishing plates and platters with delicate flowers and bits of candied peel and sprigs of parsley.

Even once the footmen came for the top table’s breakfast and Mrs. Crocombe excused herself to her own breakfast table, the work didn’t stop. Mary Ann, who had gone back to eating in the servants’ dining hall the past two days, stayed in the kitchen to oversee the lunch preparations, determined to prove herself after the other day’s disaster with the salt “mixup”. She meticulously checked that every ingredient was exactly what it was supposed to be before adding anything to her mixing bowl, and watched over Crowley carefully as she was preparing a custard dish for afternoon tea. Mrs. Crocombe was going to take the set custard, cut it into little bites, fry it, and then give each piece a little crust of caramelized sugar. It was a complicated and impressive sweet for the tea table that was sure to make a good impression on the guest, if it came out correctly. Crowley didn’t especially appreciate having Mary Ann constantly staring over her shoulder, but since she  _ had _ been the cause of the sugar-salt mix up, she supposed she couldn’t really expect anything else.

Several times throughout the day, Mrs. Warwick and Mr. Lincoln came into the kitchen to speak with Mrs. Crocombe about how the guest was reacting to various dishes. Crowley tried to listen to these conversations, but even with supernatural hearing, it was hard to pick out anything specific over the noisy kitchen.

The only good thing about this level of pressure and stress was that the day seemed to move at hyper speed, and soon they were in the home stretch. Tea was over and dinner was well underway, and with any luck, the next day would be less stressful when they weren’t blindly trying to impress the family’s guest, and had a better idea of his tastes.

The rest of the day was going to be  _ easy, _ she thought. It should have been easy.

“Crowley?”

Crowley’s heart stopped. A swarm of emotions flooded her body— shock, disbelief, excitement, sorrow,  _ rage _ .

She turned around slowly, trying to keep her face as neutral as possible as she gazed into bright blue eyes.

She gritted her teeth and gave a little curtsy. “Mr. Fell,” she said evenly, lowering her eyes so she wasn’t staring at Aziraphale’s pale curls and impeccable cream attire. Men’s fashion didn’t transform as quickly or dramatically as women’s did, so he looked nearly the same as he had that day in St. James Park.

That was the last time she’d seen the angel. When he’d called what they were  _ fraternizing _ and refused to give her a safety net in case everything came crashing down.

“Oh, are you acquainted with Mr. Fell, Antonia?” Mrs. Crocombe asked pleasantly, looking between Crowley and Aziraphale, completely unaware of the thoughts and emotions swirling inside of Crowley’s head and chest.

“Yes, Mrs. Crocombe. I was a maid in his family home when I was younger,” Crowley lied smoothly, her eyes darting to the angel behind her dark spectacles.

“I simply came into the kitchen to see if there were any more of those delightful caramelized custards from teatime,” Aziraphale gushed with a familiar hunger in his eyes. “I certainly did not expect to see such a familiar face whilst here!”

“I do believe I can whip up a few more of those custards for you, Mr. Fell, and have a footman bring them to your room,” Mrs. Crocombe told him. “And there’s no need for you to come all the way to the kitchen yourself. You can simply ask a footman or Mr. Lincoln and they’ll be more than happy to come on your behalf.”

“Oh, thank you, my dear!” And a sharp feeling went through Crowley’s chest at the words  _ my dear. _ “I appreciate it ever so much! They were truly splendid with that delectable sugar coating! Do you mind if I borrow Miss Crowley for just a moment, Mrs. Crocombe?”

Crowley shot him a warning glare behind her glasses. She didn’t want to talk to the angel. She didn’t want to draw more attention to herself. She just wanted to figure out what she was meant to be doing here so she could go home and go back to sleep.

Mrs. Crocombe’s eyebrows raised. “Well I don’t suppose I see the harm in releasing her for a few moments,” she said tentatively.

“Most excellent!” He clapped his hands together once in excitement before holding out an arm for Crowley to take, which she did, reluctantly and  _ very  _ aware of how this must look to the rest of the kitchen staff.

The angel led her through the kitchen door and into the hall that connected the service wing to the rest of the house, the hall where Crowley had sat in wait for her interview just days ago. As soon as the door closed, Crowley retracted her arm with a speed that suggested that the contact caused her physical pain.

“What in Satan’s name are you doing here, Angel?” she hissed, mentally chastising herself for the affectionate nickname.

“Well, I could ask you the same question, now couldn’t I?” Aziraphale said casually.

“I’m working,” she snapped. “Why. Are. You.  _ Here _ .  _ Aziraphale?” _

He looked so taken aback by the vitriol in her voice, the way her lips curled up in a snarl, baring sharp white canines.

“I’m a guest of Lord and Lady Braybrooke,” he said at last, somewhat defensive. “Purely a social call, I assure you. Believe you me, I’m just as surprised to see you here in the kitchens, my dear. Seems rather beneath you, don’t you think?”

She stuck him with a glare so poisonous it very well could have turned him to stone. “I told you, I’m  _ working _ . We don’t all have nice, cushy jobs spreading peace and tranquility. Sometimes,  _ my _ job requires getting down and dirty with the common folk instead of just knocking elbows with the aristocracy.”

“Well, perhaps I can help you with whatever your assignment is,” the angel suggested brightly. “We still have the Arrangement, after all.”

“I don’t need your help, Aziraphale!” she damn near screamed, and it was only with the help of a minor demonic miracle that no one in the nearby kitchen heard the sound.

“Crowley, what has gotten into you?” Aziraphale asked, looking sad and hurt. “Why are you so angry with me?”

Crowley laughed one cold, bitter bark of a laugh. “Why am I  _ angry _ ?” she sneered. “I’m sure you can figure it out, smart angel that you are. Now, why don’t you go  _ fraternize  _ with the Braybrookes?”

Her tongue was a weapon that she could wield with deadly accuracy. She turned to walk away well before she could see if it hit its mark, but she knew it had landed when she felt a wave of angelic hurt at her back and heard the strangled little “Crowley!” as the door to the kitchen swung closed behind her.

Crowley closed her eyes and took a deep breath to steady herself. And then she went back to work.

Mary Ann was still at the table chopping vegetables for the evening’s meal. Crowley took her place to the maid’s right and grabbed several rashers of bacon to cut for the lower servants’ dinner.

“So,” Mary Ann said with a feigned casual tone, not looking up from her work. “What was that all about?”

“Like I said, I used to be a maid in his house,” Crowley replied.

“I know  _ that,”  _ Mary Ann sighed. “But why did he want to talk to you?”

“Oh, he simply wished to say that his dearest mother misses my brioche terribly,” she lied with a careless air, though she could feel how hot with rage her face still was. “Their new maid — the poor lamb — just can’t get the kneading right. He asked if I had any tips that he could send to her.”

“Mmmhmmm,” Mary Ann hummed skeptically. “And that’s all, was it? Just tips for making brioche?”

“That’s all,” Crowley said firmly, pushing her knife through the bacon with more force than was strictly necessary, 

She could already tell that the appearance of the angel was about to make this assignment  _ infinitely _ more difficult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I agonized for weeks over the decision to have Aziraphale present as male in this fic. I normally don’t like when only one of them is female-presenting in a fic, but it truly felt like the right way to go in this case. A middle aged, upper class woman being a bit too friendly with a kitchen maid would have been socially unacceptable, but not the way a middle aged, upper class man being too friendly would be. And as part of my goal with this fic was to explore gender and class differences, Aziraphale needed to be male. My gay ass promises that this wasn’t some hetero nonsense!
> 
> Also, this chapter is unbetaed because I was already late uploading it, and I’m literally posting it from work on my phone.


End file.
